Chili Bomb

I was hungover when I got hit with that hot grenade. There was nothing to drink but the hot dog water in the cooler. Even the beers were wiped out.

Camping with these older guys, Don LaRue and his friend—Don’s the older brother of Kenny’s girlfriend; Kenny’s our fishing buddy; he's a dick; he gets chicks; not us.

It was an accident how we got hooked up together, how we went camping with these two older guys. These guys had it all together in life. They were fricking COOL. And they were hanging out with US. It just sort of started by accident when they were playing the Violent Femmes out of their car when dropping Kenny off at our house. Dude, we’re ALL into the Femmes for years now, we told them. I think that impressed them. Then we told them about our lake. Lake Zeecans. It’s our secret spot right off the freeway.

Then it just sort of happened. Grab your stuff and hop in. Let’s do it. Beers were had. Blankets forgotten, mainly. Hot dogs were had. Dewey was there. He got the cooler and offered to drive us all. Dewey Strox. That's what WE called him. His driving skills were a thing of legend.

Those older guys were way cool. They knew Kenny. Kenny was boning Don’s little sister, so yeah, I guess you could say they were cool with each other. Now they met the rest of us.

We listened to that Violent Femmes cassette all the way up there in Dewey’s truck, and the next day all the way back down. We sang it together, harmonized with the Femmes, all of us piled in Dewey’s truck, and because it was the Femmes, our shitty voices matched the Femmes guy’s voice so perfectly, when we got back the next day and were hanging out, all of us out front, Mom came out and yelled for us to stop our damn singing. But it wasn’t us. That was the Femmes playing in Dewey’s truck right then. This was right before seat belt tickets. All of us had piled into the back campershell of the legendary Red Ox’s red truck, there and back, sticking our heads through the back window into the cab so we could sing along with the Violent Femmes together with these older guys who were riding shotgun and bitch up there with Dewey and were cool.

We never did do any fishing. Just camping and drinking beer and bullshitting, us young guys and these two guys that had been seniors at our high school when we had just been freshmen still.

At one point in the middle of the night the beers ran out. I won't tell you what our friend Dewey did. Stupid ass teenagers. We thought we lost him. Thought we were stranded out there. He made it back, though. We heard him before we saw him. He was blasting MAY THE ROAD RISE WITH YOU by P.I.L. in his own truck that he also drove up there. Johnny Rotten was his hero. And that night, Dewey was our hero. He became legendary in our collective memory of what happened, all that we did, and how many beers we drank and slammed and belched after.

Then it was morning. Should have told Dewey to get some water. How dry I am. How dry are all of us.

"What water we got?"

“Jack diddly.”

Only water is what's left inside the cooler, the melted ice that had the hot dogs in it. Hot dogs had been opened. Floating before they had even got eaten. Melted ice hot dog water. Yum.

"Want some hot dog water?"

”Shit.”

Somebody screwed up here.

"You gotta be shitting me. Hot dog water is all we got?"

F-ck it. Water's water. We were only camping one night anyway.

Don's friend Clint sat next to me the next morning by our almost extinct campfire from last night‘s adventures. We're all gathered around it, next morning, shooting the shit before we gotta get up and get out of here. Clint's the other older guy who went camping out here with us. Looks like he’s got it all down pat; here's a guy who came prepared. These older guys, they really got it down in life. Check it out, he brought a can of chili. He'd set it by those few, still-orangey, ashy parts on the outskirts of our mostly dead fire when he‘d first got up before us that morning. Damn. Chili sounds good. This guy's a veteran. Knows what he's doing. Alls WE brought were those damn hot dogs.

He takes out a knife he also brought, and he flicks it at the top of the can of chili to get it out of the fire, rolls it over to himself between his legs on the dirt. Nobody says it, but all of us are jealous, gathered around, watching him and hungry as hell. Here the can stands on the sand right before him. He puts the knife tip to the top-center of the can with one hand, picks up a big rock with the other hand, and bangs on the butt of the knife with—

BOOM!!!

"Shit! Oh, SHIT that's hot!"

Five teenagers scatter in all directions and one man down. Or so I though; that’s what my burns on me were telling me. Each of us hit by bits of molten hot chili to varying, burning, scarring degrees and hissing and howling.

"Oh, shit, that's hot! Oh, SHIT, that's HOT!"

Shaking off limbs, wiping off faces. Some of us on our knees, rubbing dirt on our wounds. I was blown backward off my log. My cheek, chin, and both forearms burned. For a moment I'd thought I'd got it the worst, since I’d been sitting next to him.

But when the smoke all cleared and the shock wore off, I saw that Clint had flecks of smoldering chili spotted all over his arms, hands, legs, and face. He sat motionless, still with the exploded can of chili between his legs. I thought he was still in shock. But nope. He knew how to handle it. Didn’t even flinch, this guy.

"Fuck," he says. And then he just says, "Fuck," again. Like it was nothing.

Dude, I hope I'm that cool when I'm his age.